CTRL ALT DEL
by caffeinekitty
Summary: He's never been the type to take good care of his toys. Not the ones that came in fancy packages, and not the ones that he chose for himself, later. All of them, he realizes to some amusement, come finished off with a pretty little bow.


_Written for the KinkBingo challenge on Dreamwidth**  
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**Title :** CTRL ALT DEL  
><strong>Prompt :<strong> Masters/Slaves  
><strong>Rating :<strong> R  
><strong>Pairings :<strong> Psyche/Tsugaru, implied Izaya/Shizuo 

_The following story contains M/M - please don't read if that's not your thing. If it is, enjoy! ;)_

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><p><span>CTRL ALT DEL<span>

He's never been the type to take good care of his toys. Not the ones that came in fancy packages, and not the ones that he chose for himself, later. All of them, he realizes to some amusement, come finished off with a pretty little bow.

Oh, he's not careless. Just… enthusiastic. But that's what toys are for, right?

Entertainment.

And these are more robust than most. He could probably drop them from the top of Sunshine 60 and they'd pick themselves up with nary a scratch. Now and then, when they grate on his nerves to an unacceptable extent, he thinks about doing just that. He wouldn't even have to lure then, spin them some fallacy and prey on their human weaknesses. They obey because they're programmed to do so.

They aren't human. They're only toys. Really, he has no obligation to like them at all.

Which is just as well, because he _doesn't_.

It was a little disconcerting at first, seeing his own face looking back at him with guileless eyes, but he got over it. Now, he can study them for hours without batting an eyelid, but back then…

Sometimes, he wonders whether he isn't _quite_ masochistic. There's no other explanation he can dredge up to explain why he'd choose to inflict something with Shizu-chan's face on himself when he didn't have to. It isn't as though he _wants_ to see that protozoan in his free time. It's bad enough stumbling into that murderous expression while innocently strolling through Ikebukuro. Honestly, someone needs to explain to Shizu-chan that, despite his vociferous assertions to the contrary, he doesn't own the place, and therefore has _no_ right to demand Izaya stay out of it. As far as he knows, Shizuo owns his sunglasses, and his cigarette lighter. His apartment's rented, his little brother buys his clothes, and even his hair colour isn't his own. So really, not someone in any position to tell _him_ what to do.

Not when he's the one relaxing in his luxurious apartment, distracted from the free live show of magnificent humanity going on outside his high-rise windows in favour of watching the one taking place on his bed.

"Keep touching him," he instructs, when the one that looks like him glances at him with those ridiculous eyes, waiting for input.

There's a nod – no words, because he hasn't permitted them to speak – as the smaller one turns its attention back to the one that looks like Shizu-chan.

The one currently spread open on the rumpled bed, all golden skin and wheat-field hair, but different _enough _that it doesn't shatter the illusion. When dazed blue eyes turn his way, he can still pretend he's just enjoying the view.

That's why he chose the traditional kimono option, too. Everything else was too structured, too tailored. It's just a convenient bonus that the outfit rumples so easily, folds and bunches to reveal tantalizing strips of honey-coloured skin. It's decadent and debauched, _vulnerable_ and docile in ways the real Shizuo would never be.

But _that_ particular monster would never be under his control this way either, because Shizuo isn't _his _this way. He can't just tell that monster what to do the way he can with these. Shizuo's never done what Izaya wanted, and his toys can't disobey.

"Move," he complains, when the one that looks like him shifts too far into his line of sight. If he wanted to watch himself fuck, he'd just bring someone home and reposition the mirror next to the bed. "You're in the way."

Toys can't look hurt, either, but this one tries its best, blinking crestfallen eyes at him before doing as it's told. It still does as it's told, because that's what toys _did_. Toys did whatever the one playing with them wanted, no questions asked.

_"What the fuck are you doing, flea?"_

Che…

While they won't talk unless it's a direct order on his part, it seems that same coding protocol doesn't apply to the sounds they make. The more the dark haired one squeezes and fondles, the louder the blond gets. Moans and gasps fit for a top-notch whore echo around his apartment; he'll have to tell the neighbours he rented it out to an AV studio. Just the flip of a switch will shut them up, but…

"Undress him," he says, when the blonde is sufficiently reduced to a whimpering, writhing mess, robes tangled untidily around him. The other one nods, one hand reaching for the fluffy collar of his own coat before Izaya stops him with a curt "No. Just him."

The dark haired toy nods, abandoning his own clothes for the blond's, unwrapping and unravelling until all that stunningly realistic skin – really, he thinks he could reach out and touch and it'd be _warm_ - is exposed in a pool of crumpled fabric.

He sits back, making himself more comfortable. Blue eyes blink blearily at him, without suspicion without artifice. Which is kind of funny, coming from an artificial _thing_, but he supposes no one ever said toys weren't stupid.

He smiles, watching them wait for the next instruction.

"Fuck him," he tells the smaller one. Then, turning his smile to the blond, "Look like it hurts."

It doesn't. They don't feel anything that isn't programmed in. But to be fair, the blond is good at faking it.

_Ah, aren't we all…?_

It's hard to get a decent look from his vantage point when the dark haired one pushes the blond's knees back, shoving in on one hard driving thrust. Izaya doesn't really mind. There's something… tawdry and boring about watching the machinations of body parts. He much prefers watching the blond's face as it contorts in a carefully scripted parody of pain.

It doesn't get him off. It barely gets him more than half hard, and he doesn't care enough to use his imagination to get himself the rest of the way.

They wouldn't care if he worked himself to a panting mess right in front of them, but he's found it strangely hard to lose control with them around, and anyway… that thrill didn't last. He's not sure why he keeps doing it, when he gets so little out of it apart from imagining it's Shizuo thrashing around on his bed, looking pained and humiliated and spent. Shizuo, whining and desperate and making a complete disgusting fool out of himself.

_You're never any fun, Shizu-chan. See what I've had to resort to?_

Lately he's taken to entertaining himself with thoughts of Shizuo's reaction were he to be the one witnessing this happy little scene. _Whatever_ he did, Izaya didn't think he'd be disappointed. Rage would amuse him endlessly, and the tiniest hint of arousal, well… maybe he wouldn't need toys to replicate the humiliation. Maybe he could have it for real.

He watches dispassionately, chin in his hand, as the blond clings to the smaller one, having long since perfected that 'I despise myself for wanting this so badly, but I'm a slut who can't help myself' push and pull that Izaya prefers. The grip distorts pristine white sleeves, but the dark haired one never seems to mind. Well, it's not _permitted_ to mind, but there's still something soft, something absolutely _pathetic_ about it that, if he pays close enough attention, almost looks sad, almost looks _guilty_ about what it's ordered to do.

They'll do whatever he tells them to do. That really shouldn't feel as unsatisfying as it does.

Maybe it's just because he can't ever forget they're programmed to do just that. Programmed to obey. Programmed to please. He's less their owner as he is their source-code, providing commands in a series of ones and zeros. They're his slaves in the ways smaller, lesser hard-drives depend on the ambivalent control of a master to function. Synchronicity, or symbiosis. Or not, because he can always just turn them off.

Maybe it's because he knows they're not real. It's never fun unless they're fighting back, scrapping and drawing blood of their own volition.

Only distractedly does he hear the cries reach a crescendo, the squeaking of the bedsprings slowing. At least they don't make a mess, that's about the only plus point he can think of. They won't leave a speck of anything on his sheets: no sweat, no blood, no body heat.

He should erase them, he thinks, watching even their expressions fade back to that annoyingly expectant look, like they want something. Praise, or directives, like well trained pets. De-program them. At the very least instruct them to do more _useful _things than this.

But they're still only toys.

One day, he'll probably break them. It won't cut him up too badly, especially if it happens as a result of Shizu-chan's uncontrollable fury when Izaya tells him what he's been doing with them. In the meantime, he thinks he'd be a bad owner if he didn't take his playthings out of their boxes now and then.

Just to remind them all who controls whom.


End file.
